


Dog Days of Winter

by kirargent



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background Bellamy Blake/Wells Jaha, F/F, Finn Is A Literal Dog, M/M, Sledding, Snowball Fight, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-07 23:53:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5475239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirargent/pseuds/kirargent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy gets roped into driving Clarke and Raven to the park to exercise Raven's dog. Raven and Clarke are both annoyingly good with the ladies. At least—he thinks they are? He's not entirely sure what to make of Clarke's limp and that bruise on her cheek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dog Days of Winter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Asteon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asteon/gifts).



> For [heartthrob-lexa](http://heartthrob-lexa.tumblr.com) for [the 100 secret santa](http://the100secretsanta.tumblr.com/) exchange!

Bellamy would like it to be noted that Clarke Griffin is an extortionist.

He's been her ride for the past week while her piece-of-shit car is in the shop and her bicycle is rendered too treacherous to ride by the snow and ice that coat the roads. He's taken her grocery shopping, and sat in the car while she took her sweet time. He's driven her to her classes, escorted her at whim to the coffee shop near her apartment. He is now, regrettably, her and Raven's ride to the park, the cold burn of the snow seeping through his shoes, the icy air stinging his thumbs, out of the protection of his gloves so he can text Nathan and complain.

They're here for the next few hours so that Finn, Raven's obnoxious fucking lab puppy, can run out some of his energy before they attend a prissy art function to which Clarke's life-drawing class has been invited.

A prissy art function at which will be Wells Jaha, the tall, sturdy guy who hangs out with Clarke who's as cute as he is easy to rile up. He's Clarke's leverage for the extortion, naturally. Bellamy plays chauffeur for a week: Clarke takes him along as her plus-one: Bellamy gets to flirt with Jaha and watch Bellamy's favorite angry pink stain his cheeks.

It's not like Bellamy didn't make Clarke buy him fancy coffees for a month back when she was crushing on his sister, but he prefers not to mention that when he's complaining about how fucking annoying she is.

Clarke and Finn both scampered off as soon as they arrived, Clarke snatching up a discarded plastic sled with Finn running behind her for the hill that slopes off into the trees. They reappear at the top of the hill periodically, and Clarke arranges herself atop the sled in increasingly risky positions before she goes careening out of sight once more. Bellamy sees one other sledder on the hill, a girl with thick brown hair who seems to prefer to sled backwards or upside-down or... however one would describe _that_ position.

Raven stuck around initially, but now it's been a while since Bellamy's seen her.

Whatever. Clarke and Raven are adults. He's not here to babysit them.

 

It's a good two hours later when Raven reappears.

Her ponytail is lopsided, and at the end are clumps of snow tagging along for a ride. The knees of her jeans are wet, and her hair seems dark with melted snow or sweat or both. Her red jacket is patchy with spots of wet melted snow, and in addition to that it's... inside-out?

Bellamy watches her as she approaches, raising an eyebrow slowly. The snow in combination with her braced leg makes her balance even less sure than usual, but Bellamy can see a spark in her eye and a spring in her uneven steps regardless.

When she's within a few feet, he asks, his mouth tipping up with bemusement, “What the hell happened to you?”

Raven says, “Shut up,” but her grin is wide and delighted.

Bellamy's interest is piqued, his sense for something to tease Raven about on high alert. However, also heavy on his awareness is that it's getting nearer to the hour of Clarke's fancy-ass party, and he has yet to change into his monkey suit.

“We've gotta go round up Clarke,” he tells her. Pointing a finger, he adds, “But we're not done talking about—” he circles his finger to indicate Raven's appearance “—this.”

“Whatever,” Raven says, and she sets off in pursuit of Clarke so that he has no choice but to follow her.

 

They find Clarke as she's trudging up the hill with the sled dragging behind her and Finn at her feet, his paws falling lightly as he dances in the cold snow.

She looks at least as disheveled as Raven, if not more so.

Her hair is down from its bun, decorated festively with what appear to be twigs and pine needles. Her winter clothes are rumpled and carry snow in every crease; her cheeks are pink and bright with cold, her skin shiny with melted snow. She walks with an uneven gait, playing slight favor to her right leg.

Her smile is broad, then embarrassed when she catches sight of them. “Raven!” she says. “Bellamy. Hey. We should—we should head back so we make it to the party on time.”

“Yeah,” Bellamy says. “I know. That's why we were looking for you.”

“Oh,” Clarke says. “Okay. Well, good.”

They load themselves into Bellamy's car, and he does his best not to yell at them for getting his seats wet and his floor covers muddy and for stinking up the whole place like sweat and wet dog. It wouldn't do to get himself uninvited to Clarke's stupid party this late in the game, after all.

He looks at the two of them in his rearview mirror.

There's a bruise rising and purpling on the curve of Clarke's cheek.

As Raven struggles out of her wet jacket, he thinks there might be a shock of dark red lipstick at her collar.

He opens his mouth, not sure if he should frown or laugh or reprimand or tell them he's glad they had a good time.

He settles for: “What the hell happened to you two?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Clarke_

Finn is thirty-five pounds of clumsy energy charging down the hill after Clarke's sled, kicking up snow with his big paws. Clarke laughs, whipping looks behind herself as her sled skids downhill. The plastic makes a crackling, rushing sound against the snow, sending the loose powder up in a spray in front of her.

Finn's balance gives up the ghost when they're a few yards from the bottom of the hill. He tumble-slides the rest of the way, his front paws splayed wide and his black fur speckled with wet white.

Clarke skitters to a stop, the sled tipping up at an angle beneath her. She falls off of it, grinning, calling Finn's name and patting the ground with her gloves. “C'mere! Come on, Finn!”

He wobbles over to her, his tail waggling hard enough to send his whole little body wriggling. She laughs as he reaches her, scratching his chin and coaxing him to flop onto his back in the snow so she can make certain that he's not hurt. To take Finn with her, she'd had to promise Raven upwards of a thousand times that she wouldn't let her wiggly new puppy get hurt. And Clarke is not dumb enough to think that breaking a promise to Raven Reyes and allowing harm to come to someone she cares for is a good idea for anyone who values their physical well-being.

“What a good boy!” she coos, rubbing his stomach with her gloves. Excitedly, he twists to lick her fingers. Raven's trying to train him out of the habit of licking everything within reach, but Clarke kind of likes it. She laughs, kissing him on his damp, soft head before clambering to her feet and carting the sled back up the hill, calling in a high, gentle voice for Finn to follow.

It's on their next run down the hill that things go awry.

Finn is out in front, weaving side to side ahead of Clarke's sled, his tongue hanging out of his grinning mouth. Her sled shushes down the hill, licks of icy wind numbing her face. She can feel the cold of the snow through the sled and the thick fabric of her hiking pants.

And then she can feel the cold inside her chest, too, seeping through her veins as adrenaline spikes hard up her spine.

There's another sled skating past her, long and narrow, cutting more quickly through the snow. Finn's fumbly paws can't take him out of its path fast enough.

“Hey—!” Clarke yells. But the girl's sled is already connecting with Finn's rump, sending him tumbling nose-first into the snow.

The girl glances back, her sled still carting her downhill. Clarke kicks her feet out of the sled, judders running up her legs as she slows herself down. She scrambles from the sled. She thinks she hears it start to slip downhill without her, doesn't care. She runs to Finn. He's getting to his feet, snuffling, shaking off the snow caked on his little black face.

“Hey,” she calls as she approaches. His butt wags. “Hey, sweetie. Are you okay? Come here, little man.” Raven is gonna _kill_ her if he's hurt.

He's not, though. Clarke's life is probably safe. As long as she just, you know, maybe never ever tells Raven what happened.

She scoops Finn up, relief pounding in her chest.

At the base of the hill, Clarke can see the girl with the white hat and long brown hair is standing from her long sled. Vengeance on her mind, Clarke heads downward.

 

 

❄ ❄ ❄

 

 

_Raven_

Raven's plan to nail Blake in the back of the head with a hard-packed ball of snow is an excellent one, if she does say so herself.

That is, until he ducks.

The asshole fumbles with his gloves, thumbs out of their holes (probably so he can text Jaha in true lovestruck-sap form); one falls to the ground, and he stoops to pick it up, and her snowball sails high.

Bellamy stands, blinking as if he felt something clear his head but doesn't know quite what's going on. His _what's going on?_ face is annoying.

Well, fine. Raven might just be annoyed with him because he foiled her plan and made her hit the hot, intimidating chick standing several yards away.

“Did you just try to hit me with a snowball?” Bellamy asks, his expression an unbecoming mix of bewilderment and suspicion.

“Of course not,” Raven says crisply. And she strides past him, leaving him blinking in bafflement for another moment before he shakes his shaggy head (he needs a damn haircut) and returns to his phone.

Intimidating Chick waits as Raven approaches, watching her. Her cheekbones are broad and high, her eyes thin, lashes long. Her hair is a sandy, wavy blond, loose around her neck. The red of her scarf might be festive, Raven thinks, if worn by someone else. On this girl, Raven thinks the color just looks like danger. Her thin lips are a ruddy brown-red; they don't match the scarf in shade, but they do in imposing effect.

She's really, really hot, scariness aside. The intensity that gives her her terrifying edge is as appealing to Raven as it is... well, terrifying.

 _I think I might be about to be murdered_ , Raven thinks. _For hitting a chick with a snowball_.

Then she thinks: _At least she's hot_.

Raven's boots crunch in the snow. When she's near the woman, Intimidating Chick brushes snow pointedly from the shoulder of her otherwise pristinely clean coat, her narrowed eyes unwavering from Raven.

 _Whoops_ , Raven thinks.

She puts on a smile, the jaunty smirk she favors for talking to cute girls. “Sorry about that,” she says, coming to a stop. She rests her weight on her good leg, her hip cocked. “Meant to hit my friend, but the asshole ducked. You all right?”

The woman raises a dark eyebrow. “It was a snowball,” she says mildly. She tips her head a little to the side. “And a poorly constructed one, at that. Of course I'm all right.”

Raven lifts her eyebrows. “Poorly constructed?” she repeats.

Intimidating Chick inclines her head just a fraction. Something plays around her lips that Raven would label 'amusement,' although she's not quite truly smiling.

Raven watches her for a moment, jaw set; she widens her stance, balancing her weight between both legs instead of favoring her left. At the challenge in the woman's eyes, a warm excitement tingles up the length of Raven's spine.

Raven shakes her head, a grin blooming. “Poorly constructed,” she echoes again, her voice low. “I'll show you 'poorly constructed.'” She drops into a deep crouch, weight on her right leg, scooping up a patch of cold, sticky snow. She packs it between her hands—something hard and cold bursts against her cheek, exploding in a cold, stinging spray. Raven gasps. Intimidating Chick is smirking at her, clapping snow from her gloves.

“Oh, it's _on_ ,” Raven spits. She stands, draws her arm back, hurls. Her snowball chases after the woman's laughter as she turns to run.

 

 

❄ ❄ ❄

 

 

_Clarke_

In response to Clarke telling her that she'd better apologize for hitting her damn puppy, the brown-haired girl with the round pink lips and skinny nose says, “Well, you should've kept a closer eye on your dog on a sledding hill if you didn't want him to get hit.” She cocks her head, her mouth pulling up in an insincere smile.

“If you would've just watched where you were _going_ , Finn wouldn't have been a problem!” Clarke shoots back, livid heat rising in her throat.

The girl presses her lips together. She manages to look somewhere between annoyed and amused. “But it's so much more fun to go down backwards,” she says lightly.

Clarke blinks at her. “That's—that's entirely unrelated to my point,” she says, crossing her arms.

The girl's lips press into a smile. “What,” she says. “Are you too afraid to go backwards?”

“That's not the _point_!” Clarke grates out. At her feet, Finn sneezes, then flops onto his back in the snow and twists like a squirming bug, his teeth snapping at air.

The girl Clarke's staring down raises a thin eyebrow. “Your dog looks to be in critical condition,” she says, her dry voice full of sarcasm.

“Whatever,” Clarke says. “Whether he's fine or not fine does nothing to change the fact that you should've been watching where you were going. It's a public park; you don't get to act like no one else is here.”

The girl's smile curves a little wider; it makes her expression sharper, a dark sort of fire flickering in her eyes. Clarke feels, at once, an excitement coiling inside of her and an irritation trickling down her spine. There's a challenge in the girl's expression, and while Clarke likes it—well. She has been known to err on the competitive side.

“I think,” the girl says, “that you're deflecting because you'd like to avoid admitting you're too scared to go down the hill backwards.” Her smile is smug and knowing.

Clarke gapes at her. “That's just... not true!” she says. “And so entirely beside the point! We deserve an _apology_!”

“We?” the girl echoes. “You... _and_ the dog?”

“You know what?” Clarke says, nodding. “Yeah. Me _and_ the dog. And his name is Finn, by the way.”

The girl's eyes fall disinterestedly to Finn where he's snuffling snow from his furry snout. She doesn't look as though she particularly cares what his name is.

She lifts her chin. “I'll make you a deal,” she says. “What's your name?”

Warily, Clarke gives the requested information to this strange stranger. “Clarke.”

The girl dips her head once, the suggestion of a nod. “If you ride down this hill backwards, Clarke,” she says, amusement tugging at her stoic features, “I'll apologize to you.” She pauses. Her eyes flick to Finn. His butt gives an aborted half-wag. The girl's nose wrinkles. “And to your animal.”

Clarke is motionless for a silent moment. A slight breeze slaps at her cheeks with chill. “Fine,” she says flatly. “If that's what it takes.” She narrows her eyes. “What's your name, anyway?”

“Lexa,” the girl offers, the corners of her small mouth hinting at a smile.

Clarke nods. “Let's shake on it, Lexa,” she says. If Bellamy was here, he would whack her in the back of the head with a glove and tell her that the situation does not call for such seriousness, and that she should get over herself already. If Octavia was here, she'd be hooting from the sidelines, pounding her fists on her knees as Clarke and Lexa shake hands to seal the deal.

“I'll see you at the bottom, Clarke,” Lexa says, her face unreadable.

Clarke's sarcastic smile is tight with annoyance. “Count on it,” she says.

 

 

❄ ❄ ❄

 

 

_Raven_

Raven's gloves are soaked all the way through, encasing her hands in their unpleasant wet and cold. She shapes a fresh snowball with fingers she's unable to feel.

Though every centimeter of exposed skin aches with the burn of the cold air, her torso is warm, her breaths coming quick with exertion. They've been at this long enough that Raven's coat is more snow-caked than red, and her throwing shoulder is beginning to grow sore.

She peeks out around the thick-needled pine tree that's shielding her from both view and attack. “Ready to admit defeat?” she yells, though she doesn't catch sight of her opponent.

The derisive snort she receives as answer is enough to indicate where in the cluster of evergreens Intimidating Chick is hiding, and Raven darts out from her protective tree to heave her snowball towards the voice.

She misses. She watches a black-jacketed figure throw itself out of the way of her missile, pausing only to give Raven a condescending look before disappearing into a sheltering maze of tree branches.

Raven makes a noise of frustration in the back of her throat. “Hey!” she yells. She realizes she isn't properly prepared to taunt this woman. “I never caught your name!”

Laughter comes from somewhere within the trees, its exact location difficult to pinpoint. It's rich, low-pitched, nice in a way that makes Raven's blood warm pleasantly. “I never gave it!” the woman calls back.

Raven narrows her eyes, a smile finding her lips as she crouches to form more ammunition with her numb hands. “Well?” she hollers. “What is it?”

There's more laughter, elusive within the trees. Raven scans the white-laden green branches, eyes alert for movement.

“Maybe,” the woman says, “I'll tell you my name if you can defeat me!”

More laughter is swallowed by the silence of the snow before Raven can define its source's location.

She packs the snowball in her hands tighter. “Fine!” she yells. Steps wary, she ventures into the trees. It's cool within their shadows, the chill of the snow pressing in all around her. The snowy trees and cold, wet carpet eat the sound and block the watery sunlight, coloring things in pale blues and grays.

A hard punch of wet snow splatters against the back of Raven's shoulder. She jerks around, throwing her snowball faster than thought. It only catches the woman's heel as she runs gracefully sideways. Laughter in bright in her eyes, though her mouth is a tight, competitive line.

Raven steps forward towards her, scraping up snow from a low-hanging branch without taking her eyes from her target. The woman dances back, light on her feet, and Raven throws.

 

 

❄ ❄ ❄

 

 

_Clarke_

The knees of Clarke's pants are dark with snow. Her hair has come free from its tie. Her right cheek is hot and alive with a growing ache where she hit her face against a rock underneath the snow at the bottom of the hill. Snow has crept into the crevices between the ends of her coat sleeves and her gloves, freezing her skin to a bitter red. Some must have gotten under her coat, as well, because her jacket feels steamy-warm and melty-wet against the small of her back. It's unpleasant, but at present she's much more focused on the hard grip of Lexa's hands into her hips and the hot press of her mouth against Clarke's.

The tree Clarke's leaning against is tall, sturdy, its leaves stolen by the winter. Lexa presses her into it, holding her in place with strong hands at her waist. Her breath is warm in Clarke's mouth. Her kissing is softer than the rest of her: Clarke expected more flame, more competitiveness, after they spent the last hour one-upping each other until every sled ride down the hill ended in certain snowy wipe-out. But though her fingers dig hard into Clarke's hips, Lexa's mouth is gentle, teasing Clarke's lips apart so her soft tongue can flit forwards.

The air against her cheeks is sharp with cold; by contrast Lexa's mouth is a burn of heat.

Clarke sighs and shifts a little against the tree. The knobby stub of a broken-off branch jabs uncomfortably against the soft space between her shoulder blades.

“Lexa—,” she murmurs, trying to maneuver herself into a better position. Lexa just presses against her harder.

Clarke turns her face away. A question swims in Lexa's dark eyes; her hands loosen slightly on Clarke's hips.

Clarke explains, “Branch.” She bites her lip, eyes tracking the curve of Lexa's mouth.

Impulsively, she spins them, backing Lexa up against a different side of the tree. She holds her there with aligned hips and hands on her upper arms, and Lexa's eyes widen a little. Clarke discovers a grin on her own mouth.

She kisses Lexa again.

But apparently pinning her has reawakened the competitive spirit that led Lexa to sled headfirst on her back down the hill, goading Clarke to attempt the same. Her teeth catch Clarke's bottom lip, dig in a little, and Clarke gasps. She arches away from the tree, pushing against Clarke's grip.

Clarke presses back.

Lexa bites down a little harder on her lip. She shoves against Clarke's hold and sends Clarke tripping back a few steps.

Excitement racing in her veins, a laugh caught in her throat, Clarke pushes back. Somewhere along the way their lips have broken apart; Clarke drags cold air into her lungs, her body made of layers of cold and heat.

She struggles to back Lexa up against the tree, and Lexa presses forward with amusement sparkling in her eyes, and then Lexa's foot is hooked around hers and she tugs and Clarke's balance goes.

Her ankle twists with a slight twinge; Lexa guides her fall so she ends up against the tree again, a shudder running up her spine, her breath rushing out.

Lexa leans in, grinning, her long hair spilling from under her white ski cap. She bends her head to press her mouth to Clarke's again.

Clarke plants her feet, grips Lexa's arms, and reverses them again.

 

 

❄ ❄ ❄

 

 

_Raven_

“Anya,” the woman says. She's out of breath but her voice is level.

“What?” Raven pants.

Burgundy lips curve up in a knife of a smile. “My name,” she says. Raven likes her voice, she's decided. Warm, low, authoritative. She likes it just as she likes the blond hair and the red lips and the strong, lean body that she's perched astride in the snow.

For good measure, she scoops up one more handful of snow from the nearly scraped-clean ground around them, making eye contact with Anya and grinning as she lifts the collar of Anya's jacket with her fingertips and shakes the snow from her palm into Anya's clothes.

Anya's lips pinch together, her eyes going narrow. “Was that necessary?' she asks in her low, pretty voice.

“What?” Raven asks.

“The snow down my shirt,” Anya says. “I've already given you my name. What more do you hope to achieve?”

Raven shrugs. She likes sitting up here, on top of Anya's lithe body, holding her down in the snow. It feels powerful. “Maybe,” she says slowly, a grin curling up, “I just like watching you squirm.”

She flicks snow from her fingers in the direction of Anya's face; Anya's mouth tightens, but after Raven's comment about squirming, she holds herself rigid instead of twisting to get away.

Then she says, “I'll show you squirming,” and in a feat of impressive coordination and strength, she rolls them over so that she's on top and Raven's flat on her back in the snow. Raven is treated to a handful of snow down her front. She yells her surprise and outrage.

Batting at the ground, she's able to toss a bit of snow up at Anya, but it's not enough. She grits her teeth, twisting her hips until she's able to buck Anya to the side.

She scrambles to her knees, unzipping her jacket and tossing it aside, trying to shake the unpleasant wetness from her long-sleeved shirt.

Anya tackles her back into the snow. “Do you admit defeat?” she asks. Her voice is quiet, her face close. Her eyes glitter with a fight that Raven recognizes and likes. Her lips are very red and very smug and very appealing.

“No,” Raven says. And tensing her stomach, she lifts herself up to press her lips to Anya's, catching at the back of her neck to pull her down closer.

Anya kisses back immediately. Her kisses are warm, her hands long-fingered and curious as they trip over Raven's hipbones and splay across her ribcage. Raven wonders if Anya can feel the breakneck beating of her heart.

Her lips fall from Raven's mouth to her jawline, an occasional scrape of teeth making Raven shiver. Her mouth finds Raven's neck, her throat, her collarbone. Here, she sinks her teeth lightly into skin, and Raven hisses.

The warmth flooding through her body makes it that much more surprising when a cold-wet slush of snow burns against the skin of her stomach. She yelps a little, trying to scramble back; she looks down her body to see Anya's hand under her shirt and Anya's face with a satisfied smile.

“Now?” she asks, an eyebrow arch. “Now do you give up, Raven?”

“ _No_ ,” Raven spits, and lunges forward to topple on top of Anya into a snow drift.

 

 

* * *

 

  

“Would you _stop_ ,” Bellamy grumbles, “throwing your wet clothes all around my car?”

Raven's jacket is discarded; Clarke's shoes are on the floor without her feet inside them as she struggles to tug off her wet socks.

“Calm down, Blake,” Raven says. “Come on, you get to flirt with Jaha soon. Loosen up a little.”

Bellamy makes a displeased sound in his throat that he hopes communicates to her what exactly he thinks of her suggestion that he 'loosen up a little.'

“Can't you wait ten minutes to strip?” he demands.

Clarke throws a sock at him, damn her.

“Classy,” he growls.

“I know I am,” she replies lightly. “That's why you're so desperate to get in to the fancy party I was invited to.”

She might be the most annoying friend he's ever had.

...He's happy for her.

“You at least get the number of the chick who... did that to your face?” he asks, waving a hand to indicate the swelling bruise on Clarke's upper cheek.

“Of course I did,” Clarke says jauntily. “You know I'm a hit with the ladies.”

Bellamy rolls his eyes. If he weren't so good at keeping his expression neutral, he would smile; as it is, he manages to continue to project faintly annoyed boredom. “What about you, Raven?” he asks, glancing at her in the rearview mirror.

She smirks. “Got her number,” she says. “And we're having coffee next week.”

Jesus. Bellamy's not sure if he should be impressed or annoyed with the two of them. Mostly he hopes that some their good luck in the relationship arena rubs off on him before he sees Wells at Clarke's party tonight.

Just the thought makes a smile pull at his mouth.


End file.
